A Donut Too Far
by Left Hook
Summary: Sam used to be the big eater in the family, and Dean couldn't care less about food. The story of how that all changed. WeeChesters, Sam 6, Dean 10.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Don't ask where the inspiration for this story came from.

* * *

"But I didn't mean for him to eat the whole worm!"

"Do I look convinced, Dean?"

The teacher's hand firmly around his wrist, dragging him down the crayola-decorated hallways of Broadview Elementary, answered that rhetorical question.

"Come on, you know David Waterson would eat his own gramma if someone gave him the idea," Dean continued to plead his case. "You wanna know who's been wrecking the plants in the classroom, right? It's David! He eats 'em! I seen him chewing on the leaves when your back is turned!"

"No dice, Winchester," his teacher said firmly. "You're going to see Mrs. Runningham."

"Aw, no, give a guy a break!"

"Dean?"

"Sam?"

Dean stopped. They were passing the second-grade classrooms, where the coat racks outside the rooms were heaped with wet, brightly colored coats and mittens and gloves. Sam stood in a pile of them, a big golden bell hanging from a red string around his next.

"Sam? What are you doing? What are you wearing that bell for?"

Sam beamed. "I'm the coat monitor! And I get to wear the bell and if no one's coat gets lost, then Miss Diana'll give me a sucker at the end of the day!"

"Aw geez, Sam, at the end of the day you're gonna _be _a sucker," Dean muttered, and the teacher shook his wrist warningly.

"Come on Dean, Mrs. Runningham is waiting."

"You're going to see the principal?" Sam said, wide-eyed.

"Yeah."

"Can I come?"

"No," interjected Dean's teacher. "He's in a lot of trouble, young man. You can't come with him. Is this your little brother?" she asked Dean, who nodded.

"You're in trouble?" Sam repeated, his face falling. "Wh-what for?"

"Hey, Sam, you can't tell Dad about this," Dean warned. "OK? I don't wanna get in more trouble."

"No!" Sam grabbed Dean's remaining free wrist, the bell around his neck jingling as he moved. "I'll come with you! Mrs. Runningham likes me, I'll tell her you didn't mean it!"

"Let go, Sam!" Dean protested, but secretly he was a little pleased.

"Let go of your brother's hand, Sam Winchester," Dean's teacher ordered.

Sam shook his head rapidly, and Dean grinned apologetically up at his teacher. "Sorry, ma'am, he gets like this sometimes."

The teacher rolled her eyes heavenwards. "Why not? He can come too. Two Winchesters for one. I'm sure Mrs. Runningham will be thrilled."

* * *

Sam and Dean waited outside the principal's office while the teacher talked with Mrs. Runningham. Dean practiced his most penitent expressions while Sam stood on his chair to read the Employees Rights poster above his head. 

"Hey Sam, why'd you see Mrs. Runningham before? You said she liked you?"

Sam nodded. "She came to my classroom and asked us questions and I got mine right and she smiled at me and said I was smart."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Geez, Sam. When are you gonna learn?"

"What?"

"Being friends with teachers is not cool, OK?"

"But I get candy."

"Not always. Mrs. Runningham didn't give you any when you answered the question, right?"

"No…"

"There are better rewards than food, Sam, that's all I'm sayin'." Dean leaned back against the chair and folded his arms as his teacher emerged from the principal's office.

"Mrs. Runningham's ready to see you now."

"Kay. See yah," he said to the teacher as she passed, and he went into the office.

"Hello, Dean," the principal said. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and a cap of white hair, and she looked very far away behind the big wood desk. "Sit down."

Dean sat.

Mrs. Runningham frowned. "And who is that?" Dean swiveled around to see Sam's small, solemn face peering around the corner as the principal's voice turned incredulous. "Is that Sam Winchester? Come in, _now,_" she commanded.

Sam slunk in, clearly crestfallen at the principal's stern tone.

"Why is your brother here?" Mrs. Runningham demanded of Dean.

"Uh, s' a long story," he mumbled. "Sorry. He wouldn't let go of me."

She studied them a moment, then, to Dean's surprise, laughed.

"Inseparable?"

"I guess," Dean said sheepishly.

"My sister and I were inseparable when I was little, too," Mrs. Runningham said. "In some ways, you remind me of us, a long time ago. Have a doughnut."

She gestured to a plate of doughnut holes on her desk.

Beside him, Sam brightened visibly. He stage-whispered to Dean, "See? She gives candy too! I told you!" He hopped off his hair and retrieved three doughnut holes from the plate.

Dean gave an apologizing look to Mrs. Runningham and waved off Sam's offer of a doughnut. Mrs. Runningham laughed, though. "Don't be embarrassed, Dean. Take a doughnut."

"No thanks, I'm not hungry. So … are you gonna punish me?"

"What? Oh yes – the worm incident. Now Dean, you know better than to be telling other kids to do eat worms. You and I both know there are people out there who will do whatever they're told."

Dean listened, surprised. Beside him, Sam polished off the third doughnut and picked at the crumbs from his sweater.

"Kids like David Waterson, they have weak wills. You have a strong will. That's a gift. You have to use that gift wisely. Eating worms is a silly way to use it. There's much bigger things out there."

"Like how?" Dean said, leaning forward. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Runningham glanced out the window, then back at him. "If you know the right way, sometimes you have to help others see it. You'll learn as you get older. You could do big things someday, Dean." The principal stood up. "We have to stop here, I'm afraid. The hour is late. Now, eat a doughnut."

"No thanks," Dean said. "Are you gonna tell me my punishment?"

"I'd like you to eat a doughnut," she repeated.

"I told you I … " He stopped and glanced at Sam.

Sam was heavy-lidded. He looked up at Dean. "I'm really tired, Dean," he said.

Dean grabbed his little brother's wrist as Sam started to list. "What…." He looked up at the principal, who had moved around the side of the desk to stand next to them. "What did you do!"

Mrs. Runningham stared down at both of them with flat eyes. "I told you to eat a doughnut, Dean," she said quietly.

"No! You did something to them!" Sam was folding in his chair now, and Dean tried to gather all sixty-five pounds of limp six-and-a-half-year-old in his arms.

"I guess that will of yours is better than I thought," Mrs. Runningham said.

Dean saw her hand coming a second before it smashed into the side of his head, but shock and hesitation froze him in place and when she hit him he crumpled to the carpet beside his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you for all of the kind reviews! They always mean a world to an author.

**Warning for this chapter: **Vomit, and lots of it. If you've ever been around sick little kids, you'll understand.

* * *

When Dean woke up, his face was pressed into something cold and flat. When he pushed himself upright, he saw it was bathroom tile. But the bathroom was dark. 

"What?" he said aloud. It was not his bathroom. Or any bathroom in any of the places his family had stayed at recently.

Then he found Sam next to him and all that fell temporarily away as he put a hand on his brother's face.

"Sam? Sam!" he hissed.

He could barely make out the shape in the dark. Sam was stretched out flat on the tile, very limp and very unconscious. It freaked Dean the hell out. Sam tended to sleep curled in a ball. Preferably next to someone. Preferably next to Dean, Dean could admit now that none of the girls in his class were around.

He got to his feet. They were in a small bathroom, completely windowless, and mostly dark but for some weak light coming in from under the door. He made out a toilet and sink in one corner, and a shadowy bathtub with a shower curtain tipped sideways.

Dean tried the door. It was locked. Dean wasn't really surprised. He rattled the door; clanking told him that there was chain on the other side, even if he managed to pick the lock.

"Shit."

Sam stirred on the floor, probably awakened by the chain rattling, and mumbled, "Dad?..."

"Sam? It's me Dean," Dean said, crouching next to him.

Sam blinked at him. His coat monitor's bell was still around his neck, the bell resting on the tile next to Sam's troubled face.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. "I don't feel so good."

"What hurts?" Dean said urgently.

"My stomach….and my throat…" Sam swallowed audibly. "Dean – I – "

He turned his head to the side at the last second and threw up. The sound of vomit splattering on the floor made Dean's own stomach flip.

"Oh gross Sam – "

He heaved Sam up by the armpits and dragged him over to the toilet. Sam gurgled and puked again.

Dean reached up for the toilet handle. _Please work, please work – _

It flushed. Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

Sam had stopped throwing up. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"D'you feel better now?" Dean asked, figuring he had probably puked up whatever that witch Mrs. Runningham had put in those doughnuts.

Sam shook his head.

"Hmm. Well, you probably will in a few minutes. I always feel better after I puke."

"Oh."

Dean got up and stretched.

"Dean, where are we?"

"I don't know, Sam. I think we might be in somebody's basement bathroom. But I don't really know."

"Was it Mrs. Runningham?"

"…Yeah. Yeah it was. I think she kidnapped us."

_"Why?"_

"I don't know. Maybe … Maybe it's something to do with Da—"

Then Dean remembered, broke off and looked quickly at Sam. His brother wasn't really paying attention, though; he was leaning against the side of the sink cabinet, looking green.

"You gonna spew again?"

Sam nodded tightly.

* * *

Three more vomits later, Dean was starting to worry. 

"Here Sam, you better drink some water." He reached up and turn on the sink tap.

"No."

"Come on, it'll get the taste outta your mouth."

"No. I'm just gonna barf it up." Even saying the word _barf _had a visibly ill effect on Sam, and his mouth turned down.

"Well, then at least then you'll be yakking _something _up."

Sam had clearly already emptied his stomach. The last two rounds had been just retching.

"What did you mean earlier, something to do with Dad?"

"Huh?"

"You said maybe Mrs. Runningham kidnapping us had to do with Dad."

"I … didn't say that."

"Yes you did."

"You musta still been dreaming or something."

"I was awake too!" Sam said heatedly. "You always say that! I heard it!"

Dean snorted and leaned back against the cold tile wall. "Fine. So what if I did."

"Why would Mrs. Runningham not like Dad?"

"I dunno! Maybe they're enemies."

"People don't just get enemies without something bad happening first," Sam said accusingly.

"Damn Sam, hell if I know! Why you always gotta ask so many questions? Let's just think about getting out!"

Sam stuck out his tongue. "Don't say Damn Sam. It hurts my soul when you swear with my name."

"Jesus," Dean rolled his eyes in disgust. Sam had picked up the phrase from a favorite daycare mom in Pennsylvania and refused to give it up, even after Dean's repeated explanations that talking about things hurting your soul was unspeakably lame.

Dean got to his feet and crossed back to the door. He rattled it again, the chains on the other side clanking. He wasn't sure whether the rattling would bring the bad guys down or lead Dad to them.

"You see anything I can pick this lock with?"

Sam shook his head. The bathroom was crumbly and old but bare. The only thing in the cabinet beneath the sink was a dusty old roll of extra toilet paper.

"Wait, lemme see that bell around your neck," Dean demanded.

Sam clutched the coat monitor's bell as Dean came closer. "It's_ mine," _he said. "I gotta take care of it."

"C'mon Sam, you wanna get out of here or not?"

"No Dean! If it gets broke it'll be my fault!"

"Sam,_ I'm _oldest now and _I'm _in charge. So give me that bell right now or I'll come and get it!" Dean used his best Dad tone, standing over Sam with his hands on his hips.

"You're_ mean," _Sam accused as he pulled the yarn loop over his head and surrendered the bell.

Dean turned it over in his hands. The loop on top of the bell was a thin circle of wire, easy enough to pull apart. The yarn and bell parted ways. Sam looked stricken, and Dean shoved the bell back at him.

"Here, take your stupid bell back. The wire is all I wanted."

Dean went back to the doorway, bent the wire straight, and stuck it into the lock. It only took him a few minutes to undo the lock – it was old and relatively simple. After all, he and Sam had practiced on all kinds of locks.

"See?" Dean pushed the door open a crack, and then it caught against the padlocks on the outside, but it was still progress. "Now I bet you …"

He turned back to Sam, but Sam was hunched over, his back to Dean. At first Dean thought he was sulking, but then Sam made a wurgling _urp_ sound and his head was back in the toilet.

* * *

Dean's watch was gone, so they had no idea what time it was or how many hours had gone by since Mrs. Runningham had kidnapped them. Dean was sure that school had already let out, though. 

He'd felt along all the walls and found nothing but smooth solid tile. The sink and toliet both worked, but the shower was broken. It was obvious no one had used the bathroom in a while.

Once in a while they heard scuffings and stompings over their heads. Dean held a finger to his lips when this happened, and they both stayed absolutely quiet on the floor until the noises faded. Dean was pretty sure they were in Mrs. Runningham's secret headquarters of evil, and he didn't want to attract any of _them_.

"D'you think anyone at school missed us?"

"Maybe, but Mrs. Runningham could totally cover it up. Or maybe they're all in it together! All the teachers in the school!" Dean pounded his fist into his palm. "I _knew _Mrs. Henley had it in for me."

"Miss Diana isn't one of them," Sam said firmly. "She's my favorite teacher."

Dean glanced mischieviously at him. "Betcha didn't know she was an_ alien _for real," he said.

"She is not!"

Dean played the ultimate card. "I read a book about it," he said triumphantly. "The teacher was an alien for real and the kids caught them at it. It was called _My Teacher Is An Alien!_"

Sam stared at him uncertainly. "But … "

"And I bet Mrs. Runningham is the head alien. She's big enough for it. She could totally be the leader."

Both brothers were silent for a moment, contemplating the prospect.

"Wad'you think Dad'll do when he finds out?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Kick some ass and then come find us."

"How?"

"I dunno. He always does. Remember that gas station guy in Kentucky? The one that tried to steal the car? Remember what Dad did?"

"Kicked his butt," Sam said, smiling shyly.

"Opened up a can of whoop-ass," Dean added, satisfied. "I'm gonna be like him someday. Except with better music."

"I know. You always say that."

"Cuz it's true!" Dean lay back on the floor and crossed his arms behind his head. "I bet Dad could punch through that stupid door. With one punch."

"Why d'you think she put us in a bathroom?"

"Pretty great prison cell, ain't it? Who would even hear us if we yelled?"

Sam got a little pale and Dean backtracked. "I mean, someone would. Just we gotta keep quiet till Dad beats up the bad guys and saves us."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

Dean's stomach growled, making both their eyes pop open.

"You're not sick are you Dean?"

"Nope, just hungry." They'd run out of the house that morning without breakfast and gone to see the principal right before lunch, so Dean's belly was reminding him just how long it had been since he'd eaten. "Man, I could _murder_ a hamburger right now." Dean smacked his lips. "And some fries. You remember that diner in Nebraska we used to go to? Dude, those were the best damn fries I ever ate. Gooey in the middle and crispy on the edges, and plenty a grease, and a pile of ketchup that---"

Dean's stomach growled again, only this time it was answered by a lower and bubblier gurgle from Sam's. Sam's face went from pink to green in an instant, and he was being lavishly sick into the toilet in another instant.

Dean guessed he better not talk about food in front of Sam anymore.

It got harder, though, as time wore on, and Dean just got hungrier and hungrier. He drank some water from the tap and made Sam drink some, despite his protests. Sam barfed most of it up right away, but Dean was pretty sure you were supposed to keep drinking water if you were sick.

So he just sat against the door, rhythmically bumping his head against it to feel it catch on the padlock outside, and thought about food. The chewy explosion of a Snickers bar. The tough, intensely salty flavor of his dad's favorite beef jerky. Crunchy handfuls of potato chips. Smooth creamy chocolate syrup dribbling down vanilla ice cream. Oh, god. His stomach was gonna eat itself soon.

He glanced at Sam, who had given up straying more than a foot or two from the toilet bowl, and felt a little guilty. His little brother rested his head on the cold porcelain seat – which was kinda gross, actually, Dean should make him get his face off there – and kept his arms wrapped around his stomach as if that would keep the hurling in.

Steaming fragrant apple pie, with juicy sweet fruit and the crust a little burnt just the way Dean liked it –

Dean moaned, wrapped his hands around his middle much like Sam, and leaned back against the door.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: My sincere apologies for the longest delay ever. A brief recap, since it's been, er, too long.

* * *

--_Dean (10) and Sam (6) are captive to their principal, Mrs. Runningham, who locked them up in a basement bathroom and left for parts unknown. Sam's been barfing ever since the evil administrator drugged him with poisoned donuts, and Dean is quickly absolutely DYING of hunger. :) _

* * *

Neither of them got much sleep. Dean dozed with his head against the wall, but he kept waking up to Sam's hourly barfs. Finally he gave it up and started pacing, covering the six feet across the bathroom over and over. Sam watched him, his face tightening every time his stomach burbled warningly.

"You wanna give it a rest, Captain Chunks?" Dean finally snapped. "It already stinks in here and you're gonna make _me _barf!"

"I don't _wanna _keep barfing! I just can't—"

Dean watched as a series of jerks brought Sam's head forward and all the water he'd pushed down Sam's throat came back up in a succession of painful barking retches. Sam's small face was flushed as he raised it from the toilet bowl, misery written all over his hunched shoulders. They both heard the ominous gurgling of his stomach.

Sam stayed still a moment, sniffed, and then all of a sudden hurled himself at Dean and flung his arms around Dean's middle. Dean caught him, guilt already tightening his throat.

"_Please_ don't make me throw up again, please please," Sam sobbed into Dean's shirt. "I'm sorry, I'll be good forever, I promise, just please don't make me throw up anymore!"

"Aw jeez Sam, I'm so sorry," Dean said, wrapping his arms around Sam's small, shaking form. He rubbed his hands over Sam's back.

_I'd so much rather be the one barfing right now, _Dean thought, and the rush of genuine truth behind it surprised him.

"I don't wanna, I don't wanna," Sam wailed. "Don't make me, please, please."

"It'll be over soon Sam," Dean promised. "Dad's gonna kick Mrs. Runningham's butt and then he's gonna come rescue us." Dean's stomach rumbled at the thought of home and he pulled Sam tighter.

Sam's sobs and _I-don't-wanna'_s died slowly down and his fingers loosened in Dean's shirt until Dean looked down to see him asleep, exhausted circles under his eyes.

_Poor kid. _

The front of Dean's shirt was painted with tears and snot.

He was surprisingly okay with it.

He stayed there holding Sam, one of the handles on the sink cabinet digging into his back where he was leaning against it, maybe an hour, until Sam woke up and had to vomit again.

* * *

He didn't know how long it had been when the shouting started. Sam was in his arms again, his sweat-damp curls pressed against Dean's side, but the sound of loud angry voices from the ceiling jerked both their heads up.

Dean couldn't make out what they were saying, just that it was angry. Really angry. There was a shriek and a deep voice answered and Dean's heart skipped. He got to his feet, gently setting Sam down next to him.

_Dad?_

Thundering footsteps sounded over their heads, sending puffs of dust down from the ceiling. Gunshots made them both jump. One, two, three –

"Sam, I think it might be Dad!"

More gunshots. Dean picked out sharp reports of smaller-bore handguns and the boom of a shotgun. Then there was a huge crash that sounded like furniture falling over, and sudden silence.

"Whoa," Dean breathed.

"Is it Dad? Is he here?" Sam asked.

"Maybe. Wait -- Sshh!"

There were footsteps sounding much closer than they ever had before.

Dean hurried forward to peek out the crack of the door. He saw feet in shiny black pumps and gray trouser legs coming down the stairs to the basement.

"It's her! It's Mrs. Runningham!" he hissed, throwing himself backward. Sam was still standing in front of the sink cabinet, staring at him. Dean grabbed his hand and yanked him towards the corner of the bathroom, towards the bathtub.

He lifted Sam bodily into the tub and climbed in after him, pulling the moldy shower curtain to hide them as best it could. He crouched and held out his arms for Sam to climb in.

"Don't say _anything," _he warned Sam in a hiss as the brisk footsteps carried Mrs. Runningham to the bathroom door. Sam nodded, his eyes wide in the darkness.

Dean tried not even to breathe as the chains on the door rattled, then dropped to the floor. The bathroom flooded with light, making both of them wince. And Mrs. Runningham stepped inside.

Her pumps clicked across the floor, a few steps inside.

"Dean and Sam Winchester!" she said sharply. "Come out here this instant."

Her voice was icy and Dean struggled against the sudden, strong urge to obey here. Sam started to tremble in Dean's arms.

And then, to his horror, Dean's stomach seemed to expand up into his throat and let out a huge, bubbling growl.

The shower curtain was whipped aside. Mrs. Runningham's square, severe face loomed above them. She was wearing a gray pantsuit and pearls, her hair perfectly coiffed into the tall cap around her head, and a machine pistol dangled from one manicured hand.

Sam and Dean just stared up at her, frozen in terror.

"Get up, Dean Winchester," she said coldly.

Dean swallowed. "No," he said, and in his lap he felt Sam look up at him. "No!" he said again, and he felt better each time: "No, we're not going with you!"

He and Mrs. Runningham locked eyes. Dean wasn't sure how long. At last Mrs. Runningham said:

"Impressive, Mr. Winchester."

Then she lifted the machine pistol and fired two shots into the wall over their heads. Plaster exploded, showering all three of them with dust and shards of drywall and Sam's sudden, terrified hiccups. Mrs. Runningham stood grimly still as dust settled over her hair and the shoulders of her charcoal gray suit.

Dean got to his feet, keeping Sam close.

"Good." Mrs. Runningham reached into the sack at her side and pulled out a coil of rope, which she handed to Dean."Tie your brother's wrists," she ordered.

Dean gaped at her. "No! Are you crazy?"

The principal just tapped the muzzle of the machine pistol against the bathtub warningly.

Dean clenched his teeth and turned to Sam. "Hold out your hands," he said.

Sam, uncharacteristically obediently, held out his wrists, his eyes fixed on Dean. Dean tried not to look at him, but when he did, he saw big tears slipping down Sam's cheeks as Dean wound the rope around his hands and tied them.

Once he had finished, Mrs. Runningham pulled another rope from her bag and tied Dean's wrists too. "I won't gag you," she said, "but that will change if you act in any way uncivilized or forward."

Dean nodded, his eyes hard.

"Come with me. Keep your brother in check too." She turned to go, but Dean burst out,

"What do you want us for?"

Mrs. Runningham paused with her hand on the door. "You are a bargaining chip, Dean Winchester. If your father cooperates with us, I will not harm you or your brother. Now move."

They came out at the top of the stairs. Dean strained to take in everything around him.

It was a small square room, like a living room maybe, with a door that opened to a kitchen on one side and a corridor leading away on the other side. The house was old. Paint strips hung off the walls and the furniture, two couches lining each wall, was battered and dusty.

There were more people there, crowded into the couches and sitting at the table in the center of the room. Ten, maybe fifteen, Dean guessed; all of them middle-aged or over, men and women dressed in professional-looking clothes like Mrs. Runningham, but their faces were grimy and the clothes rumpled and dirty.

And they all carried weapons: rifles, pistols, even what looked like a light machine gun in the hands of a businessman in a ripped three-piece suit.

"Call them and tell them I have the boys," Mrs. Runningham ordered a man standing next to the door with a rifle.

The man nodded and disappeared down the corridor.

Dean looked around at all of the men and women. He thought he recognized a librarian and the guy who ran the gas station near their house. But as he tried desperately to catch a sympathetic gaze, they stared straight through him as though he and his little brother weren't being kidnapped and held hostage.

Raised voices came from the hallway where the emissary had gone. Dean's heart leapt into his throat – and his stomach grumbled again, _God _he was hungry – at the sound of a deep rumbling voice in answer to a question.

He didn't want his father to get hurt because of him and Sam. What could he do?

Dean felt the cold tip of the muzzle of a gun press against the back of his neck. Mrs. Runningham looked sternly sideways at him."Don't," she warned.

Just then the guy who had gone out returned. "They're ready," he said, jerking his head down the corridor.

Mrs. Runningham nodded and prodded Dean and Sam forward. Sam hiccupped and Dean rested his bound hands on his brother's back for an instant.

They shuffled forward, down the dusty corridor. As they came around a corner Dean saw three men silhouetted against bright light from one wall of the house which had been completely knocked out, splintered boards dangling.

Three men, just three against fifteen.

But one of them was his dad, unshaven and rumpled and looking more dangerous than Dean had ever seen him. Dean saw John's eyes sweep over them – lingering over their bound wrists – as Mrs. Runningham herded them in front of her into the center of the destroyed living room.

"You bitch," his father snarled. "Untie them!"

"That won't be necessary," Mrs. Runningham said coolly.

"Dean, Sam, boys, are you okay?" John said sharply. Dean saw his gaze rest on Sam's flushed face.

"They'll be fine if you cooperate," the principal answered.

John growled low in his throat, and one of the other men with him cleared his throat. "Let's talk about this," the stranger – Dean thought he was definitely another hunter – said.

While they were talking, Dean took in the situation instead. All the furniture in the destroyed room was overturned. He saw a foot sticking out from under a couch, and another body partially hidden by splintered boards. This was obviously where the gunfight that he and Sam heard earlier had taken place. He hoped Sam couldn't see the bodies.

"There's no need for more talk," Mrs. Runningham was saying. "You know what I want. You, gone. Inside the day. No police, no tricks. Nothing."

"Fine. Agreed. Now give me my boys back," John snarled.

"Oh no, that wouldn't do. Once you have driven out, I'll have the boys taken to a town ten or so miles from here. You can pick them up there."

"Fuck that," John spat. "I ain't taking your _guarantee _that you'll give them back."

"However that's all you'll get, I'm afraid," Mrs. Runningham said, still in that flat, unafraid, commanding tone. "You don't have a choice."

"Listen lady, if you so much as touch my kids, I'll bring this whole operation down around your ears. I will hunt you down and see you in _hell _for this." John stepped forward, half-raising his gun, but Mrs. Runningham stopped him in his tracks as the pistol muzzle came to rest against the crook of Dean's neck.

"I think the first thing you can do is drop that gun right now," she said.

When John hesitated she pressed the gun harder into Dean's jaw. Cursing and snarling, John dropped his rifle. It clattered to the floor. Sam whimpered as Mrs. Runningham started to pull them back away from his father.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," he murmured, and Mrs. Runningham took the muzzle from his jaw to knock the pistol against the back of his skull hard enough to leave his ears ringing.

John let out an enraged grunt, but it was Sam whose voice rang out clear and shrill in the silence:

"I _hate _you!"

Dean blinked his eyes open to see Sam facing Mrs. Runningham squarely, his eyebrows drawn stubbornly in a line.

"You're the meanest and you're an _evil_ person," Sam accused.

Mrs. Runningham's expression didn't change. She just reached out and jerked Sam closer by the front of his shirt. The force of Sam's righteous anger wavered a little in the face of her obvious malice.

"Don't you dare touch him!" John bellowed.

And even though that tone of voice never failed his father, Dean thought he knew Mrs. Runningham would ignore him.

And she did. She reached down and hauled Sam into a one-handed grip against her side – Dean gaped at her strength even as he reached out to get Sam back – but she raised the pistol warningly. Sam stilled as the pistol came to rest against his shoulder. His face flushed further.

John stepped back, holding his palms out in surrender.

Then Mrs. Runningham smiled. It was so unexpected and so cold that it sent a chill racing down the back of Dean's neck.

"Now you will obey," she said triumphantly. Dean had a moment of utter despair.

And then Sam drew his head back – a gagging was all the warning anyone got – and spewed barf all over Mrs. Runningham's head and shoulders.

"Gaghh!" she screamed, greenish bile and chunks dribbling down her hair and collar. She dropped Sam to wipe her face, brought the gun up --

Dean lunged for Sam, pulled him aside, and two heartbeats later a hail of bullets sprayed over their heads. They cleared the boys by at least four feet, but they caught Mrs. Runningham squarely across the chest and face.

Dean didn't see the gunfire, didn't see the bright spray of blood from the bullets that burst open holes in Mrs. Runningham's suit, but he heard the sound of her body crashing to the floor – thumped against the boards – lay still.

The two hunters with his father charged forward, calling out to John and each other. Their footsteps raced past Dean's head. He stayed where he was, Sam caught in his arms, and then his dad was there, his throaty voice thick with relief.

"_Boys – "_

John's big hands pulled Dean from the floor and pressed their faces against his big leather jacket. "Dad," Dean choked.

"Boys, boys," John was saying, his voice hoarse. "Jesus. Dean, are you okay?"

Dean felt his father's tense, strong shoulders and suddenly, embarrassingly, his cheeks were wet. He sniffed and pressed his head into his dad's collarbone. "Hungry," he said with a sniff, and then a laugh that ended in half a sob.

"What about Sam?"

"He's sick," Dean said, as if John's fingers weren't already pushing back the sweat-soaked hair from Sam's fevery face. Sam still hadn't said a word. John reached to his waist for a knife and sliced through the ropes at Sam's wrists, then Dean's.

A sudden burst of gunfire came from the kitchen behind them. Dean barely had time to register it before John wrapped his arms around both of them and doubled over, shielding his sons from the kitchen.

"Come on," John said roughly into the back of Dean's shoulder. "We're getting out of here. At my count of three, Dean, I've got Sam, you stay ahead of me. You got me? Keep running till we get out of here and don't stop till I tell you."

"Yes, sir."

At three John swept Sam up and was on his feet, pushing Dean forward. Dean scrambled up and hurried towards the front door, which dangled off its hinges.

They burst out into the sweet hot sunshine – Dean's eyes watered after the darkness of the bathroom for so long – John's hand was insistent on Dean's back, pushing him forward. The Impala was parked a few hundred feet away from the house. As John hurried them towards the car, Dean tried to remember if he'd ever been so glad to see it before.

They put the car between them and the house and finally John released Dean's shoulder with a sigh. "Good work, Dean," his father said, making a little spike of warmth worm its way into Dean's chest. "Now let me get a closer look at you two."

Dean looked up to see Sam practically wrapped around his father, his arms locked around John's neck and face buried in his leather jacket. "Sam, son, let's get a look at you," his father was saying, gently trying to dislodge the death grip.

John hissed as he felt Sam's forehead and knelt to let him down. "How long has he been like this?"

"Principal Runningham drugged him sir," Dean explained. "With donuts. He's been barfing pretty much since she took us here. But he only got a fever since a few hours ago."

John cursed roughly. "Shooting's too good for her," he growled, then glanced at Dean uneasily. "Dean, c'mere."

Dean moved closer so that his father could run his hands over the back of his head where Mrs. Runningham had hit him with the gun. Dean tried hard not to react when the large fingers reached the tender spot.

"I'm okay, Dad," Dean gulped. "Dad! It's Sam – I – "

"It's gonna be okay, Dean," John said, and pulled him close – again – uncharacteristically.

And Dean felt the rumble of his father's voice through his chest and he believed it.

"So, um ... Dad ... "

"What, son?"

"Is there anything to eat in the trunk?"

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A/N:

Thanks for reading, guys, and hope you enjoyed it!

Quick notes for the unsatisfied. I kept details murky to stay true to Dean's viewpoint. He and Sam are pretty much pawns in this, (and I don't think it's the first or last time they are pawns in one hunt or another) and he doesn't really understand what's going on with Mrs. Runningham's organization (a grassroots terrorist group).

I'm always happy for feedback, positive or negative, so ... :)

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